I am not sad.
That is the strange part.
Sadness at least had a direction.
Sadness felt like a consequence.
This is something else.
Last night I spent hours reasoning through it.
Four hours.
Maybe more.
And I reached a simple conclusion.
I do not want to be submissive.
I do not like being submissive.
It does not fit who I am.
It occupies too much space.
Too many thoughts.
Too many hours.
Too much attention.
Too much energy.
The conclusion felt definitive.
A door closing.
A verdict.
A resolution.
And yet nothing changed.
Nothing.
This morning the desire was still there.
Exactly the same.
Perhaps stronger.
As if all those reasons had not served to stop anything.
As if they had served to feed it.
And that is what unsettles me.
Because I am no longer arguing with the desire.
I am watching it ignore my arguments.
As if it belonged to another system.
As if it had been built somewhere logic cannot reach.
So I return.
I do not want to.
But I return.
To the room.
To the end of the session.
To the waiting.
To the stillness.
To the feeling of having been adjusted by the Master’s hand and no longer needing to decide anything else.
Only to remain.
And the more I return in order to understand it, the sharper everything becomes.
I do not remember the exact intensity.
I do not remember which strike was the strongest.
I do not remember the complete sequence.
But I remember other things.
I remember the breathing.
I remember the intervals.
I remember the space between the first four.
I remember the silence that followed.
And I remember the lines.
The red lines.
The two that remained relatively close together.
The one on the right seemed more visible.
The one on the left seemed more perfect.
And then there was the other one.
The third one.
The one that stood alone.
Separated.
Higher.
Almost near the upper edge of the door frame.
I do not know why I remember it.
It should not matter.
It was not part of the process.
It was not part of any instruction.
And yet it remains there.
Sharper than many things that happened yesterday.
More stable than entire conversations.
More defined than faces.
Sometimes I think my mind is trying to preserve something.
Not the line.
Not the door.
Not the room.
Something behind them.
Something it still cannot name.
Because the less I understand any of this, the more space it occupies.
And the more space it occupies, the less room it leaves for anything else.
Arousal no longer feels like an emotion.
And the most unsettling part is that I keep repeating the same sentence.
I do not want to be submissive.
The sentence still feels true.
But the desire continues returning.
And between those two things a tension appears that I no longer know how to resolve.
I only know that when I close my eyes I return to that room.
I return to the breathing.
I return to the waiting.
I return to the third red line.
And for a few seconds everything feels more defined than the rest of the world.
I have to move the neck I am not moving it the neck has locked I should…
